She glances down at August, who is now poking holes in the dirt with his stick. “He ought to be in school, I know. But the schools don’t want a boy who can’t sit still, and the parish charges more than sugar money. So he stays with me, learns numbers at the till. That’s schooling enough for now.”
I tuck the praline into my glove and bid them good day. August is already chasing shadows with his stick, his mother calling after him in weary French.
I linger in the square before a grand cathedral, praline crumbling sweet against my teeth. Carriages stop at the gates, footmen helping down the ladies in fine gloves and parasols. Just beyond the iron fence, children hold out flowers and trinkets. A girl no older than August offers a wilted bloom to a passing woman, who walks on without a second glance.
I turn away, praline wrapper crumpled in my glove, and let the crowd carry me back toward the Hotel de Chartres.
Using the room key from my pocket, I unlock the door and step inside. I take no more than a step before a jolt shoots through me and I freeze.
Someone stands at the window. A large man, dressed head to toe in black, broad shoulders sharp against the glass. My pulse leaps. Is this one of Kodiak’s enemies, come to finish what chains and bullets could not?
“May I help you?” My voice is firm, though my heart batters against my ribs.
He turns slowly. A hush fills me where breath should be. The face is familiar—oddly familiar—and yet mismatched. Hair combed flat and shining, jaw smooth as porcelain, only a trim mustache left in place. A jacket and waistcoat hug his frame, a bowtie knotted crisp at his throat.
The outlaw is gone. In his place stands a gentleman fit for a governor’s ball.
“I’m sure I could think of somethin’,” Kodiak drawls, the grin all devil despite the costume.
I cannot decide what is more dangerous—the way the fabric of his waistcoat fits taut against the firm swell of his chest and shoulders, tapering to the narrow fit at his hips, or the version of him that’s dressed in dust from the trail. They both tempt a woman into trouble, but I cannot decide which tempts me more.
I press a hand to my chest, my heart slowing. “Do you care to explain the change in your appearance?”
“We’re goin’ to the opera.” He gestures toward the bed, where a gown is laid out. Pink taffeta, the corset embroidered with pearls. “Got you a dress. Lady at the boutique said it’s adjustable. Some kind of ribbons or?—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Can’t a man take his lady to the opera?”
I step closer, astounded by the sharp line of his jaw. My God. I touch his face. He even smells different—clean, faintly spicy, nothing like gunpowder and sweat.
“Seein’ if I caught a fever?”
“You shaved…and you’ve been to the barber.”
“Don’t clean up half bad, do I?”
“Kodiak.” My mind is a blur of excitement, curiosity, and fear. “This is all so strange. Please, you’ll drive me mad if you leave me to wonder.”
His grin fades. “You ain’t the only one nearly mad. Came back and found you gone. I thought somebody’d taken you. You don’t know what that does to a man.”
He steps close, the scent of spice and soap wrapping around me. “Next time you get the notion to wander, remember who you belong to, and what I’d do to any bastard tried to take you from me.” He starts to set a hand on my waist, but I step back and smack it away.
“How am I supposed to know anything when you don’t say a word? You disappear without so much as a goodbye, and I’m left staring at the walls like a fool. I will not be shut away while you run off to God only knows where. You can’t just string me along from one mystery to the next. Now, what are you up to?”
“Little lamb, I’m only askin’ you to enjoy’ an evening in New Orleans on my arm. There’s nothin’ for you to worry about.”
A paradeof gentlemen pass in top hats, walking sticks in hand. On their arms are ladies in gowns and jewels who glide along Bourbon and Toulouse. On the brick street, the handsome theater curves around the block in Italian architecture, its facadeaglow with lamplight. A banner hangs from up high. Tonight: Gounod’s Faust.
We pause at the cafe adjoining the opera house. Inside, posters for coming operas line the ornate walls. The city’s elite rabble and gossip over champagne, their crystal flutes glittering like the chandeliers overhead.
Kodiak plays his part well, with a genteel disposition that suits the room. He takes whiskey neat in a heavy-bottomed glass, while for me, a waiter in a white jacket sets down a dainty goblet. The drink is pale and opalescent, tinged with green, the ice sparkling like frost.
“Absinthe frappe, madam,” the man says with a nod, before vanishing into the throng.
“What on earth is this?” I ask.
Kodiak smirks. “New Orleans specialty.”
